No one ever visited a Roman Catholic country, without feeling some curiosity upon the subject of nuns and convents, monks and monasteries; and there is certainly no country in the world that affords so many incitements to this curiosity, or so many facilities for gratifying it, as Spain. Among all the ceremonies belonging to the church of Rome, none perhaps possesses so much interest in the eyes of a stranger, as that which is denominated “taking the veil;” chiefly, because it is the only one of them all, that addresses the heart more than the eye. I had always felt great curiosity to witness this extraordinary sacrifice of reason and nature, at the altar of bigotry and ignorance; but I found the gratification of this curiosity more difficult than I had imagined. Heretics are no welcome guests at such times; and during the first month of my residence in Madrid, I made two unsuccessful attempts to witness the ceremony of taking the veil! It fortunately happened, however, that the priest whom I had engaged at my arrival in Madrid, to speak Spanish, and read Don Quixotte with me, and with whom I passed much of my time, was the officiating priest in the convent of Comendadoras de Calatrava; and as I had often expressed a strong desire to see a profession, he came one day with the welcome intelligence, that in that convent, a profession would take place on the Sunday morning following; and as it was his duty to officiate on the occasion, and to administer the sacrament to the new sister, he had it in his power to gratify my wishes, and to admit me at an early hour: and he also all but promised, that after the ceremony, I should be permitted to see the interior of the convent—a privilege even greater than the other.

The chapel of the convent is separated from the apartments by a wide iron grating—so wide, that every thing which takes place on the other side, is seen as distinctly as if there was no separation whatever. I placed myself close to this grating some little time before the ceremony commenced.

How many strange, wild, and romantic associations are connected with “taking the veil!” The romances of our earlier days,—the tales, that professed to reveal the mysteries of the cloister, crowd upon our memory: we see standing before us the creatures of our imagination—the inflexible lady abbess—the trembling nun—we hear the authoritative question, and the timid reply—we see the midnight procession, and hear the anthem of sweet and holy voices—and a crowd of mysterious and half-forgotten dreams and visions float before us. Some of these early visions I had learned to doubt the reality of,—I had already caught occasional glimpses of those mysterious creatures who inhabit convent walls, without finding any realization of my vision of charms more than mortal. I had learned to know that nuns grow old, and that the veil does not always shadow loveliness; but having understood that the victim about to sacrifice herself was scarcely seventeen, I dismissed from my mind all the realities that warred with my romantic illusions, and recurred to the dream of my earlier days.

At the hour appointed, the abbess entered the room on the other side of the grating, accompanied by all the nuns, and by several ladies, friends and relatives of the novice. She entered a moment after; and immediately knelt down, with her face towards the grating, so that I had a near and distinct view of her. She was attired in the novice’s robe of pure white, and wore a crown of flowers upon her head. She seemed scarcely more than sixteen. Her countenance was gentle, sweet, and interesting;—there was an expression of seriousness, but not of sadness, in her face; and a skin, fairer than usually falls to the lot of Spanish women, was sensibly coloured with a fine carnation,—the glow of youth, and health, and happiness, yet lingering on her cheek; and connecting her with the world of light, and life, and freedom, about to close upon her for ever.

The administrator now entered by the chapel, and placed himself in a chair close to where I was stationed, and at the side of an opening in the grating of about a foot square. The novice then rose, and walking forward to the grating, presented him with a paper, which he read aloud: this was the act of renunciation of all property, then and for ever; and during this ceremony the novice retired and knelt as before, holding in her hand a long lighted taper, with which the abbess presented her. The preparatory service then commenced by reading and chanting; and this, although monotonous, was pleasing and impressive, according well with the solemnity of the scene that had introduced it; and in this service the novice joined, with a clear sweet voice, in which nothing of emotion could be distinguished. When this was concluded, the novice again rose, and advanced to the grating, and pronounced slowly and distinctly the three vows that separate her from the world,—chastity, poverty, and obedience. Her voice never faltered; nor could I perceive the slightest change of countenance; the colour only, seemed to be gradually forsaking her. The lady abbess, who stood close by her side, wept all the while. Ah! if each tear could have told why it flowed, what a history might have been unfolded. Indignation was the feeling produced in my mind. I wished for the cannon of the Constitutionalists, to throw down these most odious of prisons; and even to the priest, who stood by me in his crimson and gilded surplice, I could not restrain myself from saying, half audibly, “Que infamia!”

When the vows that could never be recalled had been pronounced by this misguided child, she stepped back, and threw herself prostrate upon the ground,—this is the act confirmatory of her vows,—symbolical of death, and signifying that she is dead to the world. The service was then resumed,—a bell continued slowly to toll; and the priest read; while the nuns who stood around their new-made sister, responded,—“dead to the world—separated from kindred—bride of heaven!” and the nun who lies prostrate is supposed, at the same time, to repeat to God in secret, the vows she has already pronounced aloud. When this was concluded, a slow organ peel, and a solemn swell of voices rose, and died away; and the abbess then raised the nun from the ground, and embraced her; and all the other nuns and her relations also embraced her. I saw no tear upon any cheek, excepting upon the cheek of the abbess, whose face was so full of benignity, that it half reconciled me to the fate of the young initiated who had vowed obedience to her. When she had embraced every one, she again knelt for a few moments, and then approached the grating along with the abbess; and the priest handed to the abbess through the opening, the vestments of a nun. Then came the last act of the drama:—the crown was lifted from her head; the black vestment was put on, and the girdle and the rosary; and the black hood was drawn over her head;—she was now a nun, and she again embraced the abbess and all the sisters. Still I could not discover a single tear, excepting on the cheek of the abbess, who continued to weep almost without ceasing to the very end: the countenance of the young nun remained unmoved. The crown was again replaced upon her head, to be worn all that day; the sacrament was administered, and one last embrace by friends and relations terminated the scene.

I had thus seen what I had long felt so much anxiety to see,—“taking the veil;” and I found it, at the same time, a stirring and a melancholy spectacle: stirring, because it filled the mind with indignation against those whose cruel and insidious counsel had misled an innocent girl; and melancholy, because it pointed to a life uncheered by life’s sweetest charities,—unblest by its holiest ties,—life without interest, without change, without hope; its sources of enjoyment dried up; and its wells of affection frozen over.

It is not difficult to account for such sacrifices as this. A young person enters a convent as a novice at fifteen or sixteen: this requires little persuasion,—the scene is new, and therefore not without its attraction. Mothers, sisters, and friends are occasionally seen; and no vow prevents a return to the world. During the noviciate, she forms attachments among the nuns, who exert themselves to the uttermost to please her. The attractions of the world are not presented to her, and they are, therefore, not felt to be attractions; and all the while, the priests and confessors have been labouring to impress her with a notion of the excellence of a religious life,—its pure enjoyment in this world, and its certain and great reward in another; and these arguments are enforced by strictures upon the vexations and evils of the world without, and the lack of enjoyment to be found in it. Such reasoning cannot fail to produce its effect upon the mind of a young person who has never known the world, and who is daily assured by the sisters in the convent that they are happy: add to this, a certain eclÂt in taking the veil,—extremely captivating to a youthful mind,—and it will scarcely seem surprising, that when the noviciate expires, there should be nothing terrible, or even very affecting in the ceremonial that fixes the destiny of the novice. She feels that she is vowing a continuance of the same life that she has already led, and for which habit may even have taught her an inclination; and her days are to be spent with those whom she probably loves more than any others without the convent walls. And what are the vows, to a child who has entered a convent at fifteen? She vows obedience to one whom she feels pleasure in obeying. She renounces property she never enjoyed, and whose uses are not understood; and in vowing chastity, she knows only that she is dedicating herself to heaven. The profession of a girl of sixteen or seventeen, is an abomination; and admitted so to be, even by the priests. A canon at Seville—nay, more, a Dominican friar near Alicante, agreed with me in opinion, that no woman ought to be permitted to take the veil at an earlier age than twenty-four. If a woman who has tried the world, and knows its enjoyments and its dangers, chooses to renounce it, and retire into a convent, she can only accuse herself of folly, or bigotry; but it is altogether a piece of villany when a child leaves the nursery to begin her noviciate.

The priest, who had led me to hope that I might be permitted to visit the interior of the convent, did not disappoint me. This convent is one of the most complete, and the best fitted up of any in Madrid. No one enters it who cannot bring to its treasury a considerable fortune; and its accommodations are accordingly upon a scale of corresponding comfort. In company with the priest and the porteress, an old nun, I went over the greater part of the building. The accommodations of each nun consist of a small parlour and a dormitory adjoining, and a small kitchen. The nuns do not eat in company. The dinners are separately cooked, and the whole is then carried to a public room, where it is blessed; and again carried back to the separate apartments, where each nun eats alone. The little parlours of the nuns are plain and clean; the walls white-washed, and the floors generally matted; but the room is without any fire-place, and contains a table and two chairs. The beds are extremely small, and extremely hard; and upon the table, in every dormitory, there is a crucifix. Among other parts, I was conducted to the chamber of the new-made nun. The bed was strewn with flowers—marigolds and dahlias,—and a crown of jilly-flowers lay upon the pillow. Here every thing was new; yet all would grow old along with the inmate. A new bright lamp stood upon the table; and as I looked at it, I could not avoid the picture that presented itself in fancy,—the dull light falling upon the white wall; and the silent inmate of the chamber with her book and rosary, through the long chill evenings of winter;—what a contrast from the picture of a cheerful home!

The rooms of the nuns all look into the garden. Those in front are occupied by ladies who have not taken the veil, but who have retired from the world, and who live there in tranquillity and seclusion. Many of these rooms are prettily fitted up, and contain small libraries, altogether of religious books, and a few pictures of the same character. In going through the convent, I saw two of the nuns,—old, disagreeable, ill-favoured women,—the younger sisters were not visible, excepting the new-made nun, who seemed that day to be allowed the range of the convent; for I saw her, with her crown still upon her head, in her own chamber, in one of the corridors, and in the garden: she looked quite happy. After having been conducted through almost every part of the convent, I was introduced into the refectory, and presented with wine and cake. I shall never forget the taste of that cake; it seemed to me, to taste of the tomb; and crumbled in one’s hand like something touched by the finger of decay.

The order to which this convent belongs, is not so strict as many others. The chief difference in strictness between one order and another, consists in the more rigid observance of fasts, the number of meagre days, the obligation to night prayers, and the rules as to solitude and society. In some of the orders, dispensation from the vows of poverty and obedience may be obtained; and such dispensations occasionally are obtained,—if, for example, the labour or service of a nun should be required for the support or comfort of a destitute or aged mother. Dispensation from the vow of chastity is scarcely to be obtained; yet even this has sometimes been known. Last year, a lady of high family who had taken the vows in Barcellona, obtained a general dispensation, and married,—it is said that she was never happy; and she died a few months afterwards. It may easily be supposed, that long accustomed prejudices, and a superstitious bias, acting upon the imagination, might produce disastrous effects both upon mind and body. In the case of the late Countess Ofalia, a dispensation was also obtained. She was five years a nun. She entered the convent at the age of fourteen; and the dispensation was granted upon the ground of her youth, and also because her consent was supposed to have been extorted. This lady had, fortunately, less superstition than the other. She left the convent at nineteen; and married the Count Ofalia, with whom she lived happily.

During the French government in Spain, under Joseph Buonaparte, and also during the time of the constitution, the doors of the convents were open to whosoever might choose to go again into the world: it is said, that not more than two in Madrid, and four or five throughout the rest of Spain, availed themselves of this privilege. This is scarcely to be wondered at; superstitious fears, and conscientious scruples, interfered no doubt with the wishes of many; others had grown grey within their convent walls, and to whom could they return? Some, who might yet have found enjoyment in the world, had no means of living in it, having renounced their inheritance; and many, no doubt, had contracted a partiality for a religious life, and were actuated by pious motives.

Next to the curiosity I had felt to witness the profession of a nun, was my curiosity to witness an exhibition of a very different kind: the spectacle of a bull-fight. This is one of the many things that are to be seen in Spain, and in no other country in the world; and, however barbarous the spectacle must seem to every one but a Spaniard, it is, nevertheless, one of so stirring and so extraordinary a kind, that I think it would almost repay a journey to Madrid, even if the traveller set off next morning upon his return.

The bull-fight is the national game of Spain; and the love of the Spaniards for this spectacle, is almost beyond belief. Monday, in Madrid, is always, during the season of the bull-fights, a kind of holiday; every body looks forward to the enjoyments of the afternoon; and all the conversation is about los toros. Frequency of repetition makes no difference to the true amateur of the bull-fight; he is never weary of it; at all times he finds leisure and money to dedicate to his favourite pastime. The spectacle is generally announced, in the name of his majesty, to begin at four o’clock; and, before three, all the avenues leading towards the gate of Alcala, are in commotion; the Calle de Alcala, in particular, throughout its whole immense extent, is filled with a dense crowd, of all ranks and conditions, pouring towards the gate: a considerable number of carriages are also seen—even the royal carriages; but these arrive later: and there are also many hack cabriolets, their usual burden being a peasant, and two girls, dressed in their holiday clothes; for there is no way of shewing gallantry so much approved among the lower orders, as treating to a bull-fight; and when this is carried so far as to include a drive in a red and gilded cabriolet, the peasant need sigh no longer.

I had been able to secure a place in one of the best boxes, through the kindness of one of my friends; and, some little time before the fight begun, I was comfortably seated in the front row, with quite enough to occupy my attention, until the commencement. The spectacle was most imposing. The whole amphitheatre, said to contain 17,000 persons, was filled in every part, round and round, and from the ground to the ceiling; carrying the imagination back to antiquity, and to “the butcheries of a Roman holiday.” The arena is about 230 feet in diameter; this is surrounded by a strong wooden fence, about six feet in height, the upper half retiring about a foot, so as to leave, in the middle of the fence, a stepping-place, by which the men may be able, in time of danger, to throw themselves out of the arena. Behind this fence, there is an open space about nine feet wide, extending all the way round, meant as a retreat; and where also the men in reserve are in waiting, in case their companions should be killed, or disabled. Behind this space, is another higher and stronger fence bounding the amphitheatre, for the spectators; from this fence the seats decline backward, rising to the outer wall; and above these are the boxes, which are all roofed, and are, of course, open in front. Those on the east side, which are exposed to the sun, (for the spectacle always takes place in the evening), have awnings; but these are insufficient to screen the spectators from the heat; and accordingly, the price of the places on the west side, is considerably more than the price of those exposed to the sun. Below, in what may be called the pit, the difference in price, according to sun or shade, is still greater, because there are there neither coverings nor awnings: so important, indeed, is this distinction considered, that there is not only one price for places in the sun, and another for places in the shade, but there is an intermediate price for places partly in the sun and partly in the shade,—exposed to the sun during the first part of the evening, but left in shade the latter part of it. The best places in the boxes cost about 4s.; the best in the amphitheatre below, about 2s. 6d.; the commonest place, next to the arena, costs four reals. In the centre of the west side, is the king’s box; and scattered here and there, are the private boxes of the grandees and amateurs, distinguished by coloured silk drapery hanging over the front. In the boxes, I saw as many women as men,—and in the lower parts, the female spectators were also sufficiently numerous; all wore mantillas: and in the lower parts of the amphitheatre which were exposed to the sun, every spectator, whether man or woman, carried a large circular paper fan, made for the occasion, and sold by men who walk round the arena before the fight begins, raising among the spectators their long poles, with fans suspended, and a little bag fixed here and there, into which the purchaser drops his four quartos (1¼d.).

The people now began to shew their impatience, and shouts of el toro were heard in a hundred quarters; and soon after, a flourish of trumpets and drums announced that the spectacle was about to commence. This created total silence,—one of the results of intense interest,—and the motion of the fans was for a moment suspended:—First entered the chief magistrate of the city, on horseback, preceded by two alguacils, or constables, and followed by a troop of cavalry, who immediately cleared the arena of every one who had no business there; next, an official entered on foot, who read an ordonnance of the king, commanding the fight, and requiring order to be kept; and these preliminaries having been gone through, the magistrates and cavalry retired, leaving the arena to the two picadores, who entered at the same moment. These are mounted on horseback,—each holding a long lance or pike, and are the first antagonists the bull has to encounter; they stationed themselves on different sides of the arena, about twenty yards from the door at which the bull enters; and at a new flourish of trumpets, the gate flew open, and the bull rushed into the arena: this produced a deafening shout, and then total silence. The bulls differ very widely in courage and character: some are rash,—some cool and intrepid,—some wary and cautious,—some cowardly. Some, immediately upon perceiving the horse and his rider, rush upon them; others run bellowing round the arena,—some make towards one or other of the Chulos, who at the same moment that the bull appears, leap into the arena with coloured cloaks upon their arms; others stop, after having advanced a little way into the arena, look on every side, and seem uncertain what to do. The blood of the bull is generally first spilt: he almost invariably makes the first attack, advancing at a quick trot upon the picador, who generally receives him upon his pike, wounding him somewhere about the shoulder. Sometimes the bull, feeling himself wounded, retires, to meditate a different plan of attack; but a good bull is not turned back by a wound,—he presses on upon his enemy, even if in doing so, the lance be buried deeper in his flesh. Attached to the mane of the bull is a crimson ribbon, which it is the great object of the picador to seize, that he may present to his mistress this important trophy of his prowess. I have frequently seen this ribbon torn off at the moment that the bull closed upon the picador.

The first bull that entered the arena, was a bad bull: he was deficient both in courage and cunning: the second, was a fierce bull of Navarre, from which province the best bulls are understood to come; he paused only for a moment after entering the arena, and then instantly rushed upon the nearest picador, who wounded him in the neck; but the bull disregarding this, thrust his head under the horse’s belly, and threw both him and his rider upon the ground: the horse ran a little way; but encumbered with trappings, he fell,—and the bull, disregarding for a moment the fallen picador, pursued the horse, and pushing at him, broke the girths and disengaged the animal, which finding itself at liberty, galloped round the arena—a dreadful spectacle, covered with gore, and its entrails trailing upon the ground. The bull now engaged the chulos: these young men shew great dexterity and sometimes considerable courage, in the running fight, or rather play, in which they engage the bull,—flapping their cloaks in his face,—running zig-zag when pressed, and throwing down the garments to arrest his progress a moment, and then vaulting over the fence,—an example which is sometimes followed by the disappointed animal. But this kind of warfare, the bull of Navarre seemed to consider child’s play,—and leaving these cloaked antagonists, he made furiously at the other picador, dexterously evading the lance, and burying his horns in the horse’s breast: the horse and his rider extricated themselves, and galloped away; but suddenly the horse dropped down, the wound having proved mortal. The bull, victorious over both enemies, stood in the centre of the arena, ready to engage another; but the spectators, anxious to see the prowess of the bull directed against another set of antagonists, expressed their desire by a monotonous clapping of hands, and beating of sticks, a demonstration of their will perfectly understood, and always attended to.

The banderilleros then entered: their business is to throw darts into the neck of the bull; and in order to do this, they are obliged to approach with great caution, and to be ready for a precipitate retreat; because it sometimes happens that the bull, irritated by the dart, disregards the cloak which the banderillero throws down to cover his retreat, and closely pursues the aggressor. I saw one banderillero so closely pursued, that he saved himself only by leaping over the bull’s neck. The danger, however, is scarcely so great as it appears to the spectator to be; because the bull makes the charge with his eyes shut. The danger of the picador who is thrown upon the ground, is much greater; because, having made the charge, the bull then opens his eyes, and the life of the picador is only saved by the address of the chulos, who divert the attention of the victor. Generally, the banderilleros do not make their appearance until the bull appears by his movements, to decline the combat with the picadors; which he shews by scraping the ground with his feet, and retiring. If the bull shew little spirit, and the spectators wish that he should be goaded into courage, the cry is “fuego,” and then the banderilleros are armed with darts, containing a kind of squib, which explodes while it sticks in the animal’s neck.

When the people are tired of the banderilleros, and wish to have a fresh bull, they signify their impatience in the usual way, and the signal is then given for the matador, whose duty it is to kill the bull. The matador is in full court dress, and carries a scarlet cloak over his arm, and a sword in his hand: the former he presents to the bull; and when the bull rushes forward, he steps aside and plunges his sword in the animal’s neck; at least so he ought to do, but the service is a dangerous one, and the matador is frequently killed. Sometimes it is impossible for the matador to engage upon equal terms a very wary bull, which is not much exhausted. This was the case with the sixth bull which I saw turned out: it was an Andalusian bull, and was both wary and powerful. Many times the matador attempted to engage him, but without success; he was constantly upon the watch, always disregarding the cloak, and turning quick round upon the matador, who was frequently in imminent danger. At length the people were tired of this lengthened combat, and seeing no prospect of it ending, called for the semi-luna, an instrument with which a person skulks behind, and cuts the ham-strings of the animal: this the bull avoided a long while, always turning quickly round; and even after this cruel operation was performed, he was still a dangerous antagonist, fighting upon his knees, and even pursuing the matador. The moment the bull falls, he is struck with a small stiletto, which pierces the cerebellum; folding doors, opposite to those by which the bull enters, are thrown open, and three mules, richly caparisoned and adorned with flags, gallop in; the dead bull is attached by a hook to a chain, and the mules gallop out, trailing the bull behind them: this is the work of a moment,—the doors close,—there is a new flourish of trumpets; and another bull rushes upon the arena.

And how do the Spaniards conduct themselves during all these scenes?—The intense interest which they feel in this game is visible throughout, and often loudly expressed; an astounding shout always accompanies a critical moment:—whether it be the bull or the man who is in danger, their joy is excessive; but their greatest sympathy is given to the feats of the bull. If the picador receives the bull gallantly, and forces him to retreat; or if the matador courageously faces, and wounds the bull, they applaud these acts of science and valour: but if the bull overthrow the horse and his rider; or if the matador miss his aim, and the bull seems ready to gore him, their delight knows no bounds. And it is certainly a fine spectacle to see the thousands of spectators rise simultaneously, as they always do when the interest is intense: the greatest and most crowded theatre in Europe presents nothing half so imposing as this. But how barbarous, how brutal is the whole exhibition! Could an English audience witness the scenes that are repeated every week in Madrid?—a universal burst of “shame!” would follow the spectacle of a horse, gored and bleeding, and actually treading upon his own entrails, while he gallops round the arena: even the appearance of the goaded bull could not be borne,—panting, covered with wounds and blood, lacerated by darts, and yet brave and resolute to the end.

The spectacle continued two hours and a half; and during that time, there were seven bulls killed, and six horses. When the last bull was dispatched, the people immediately rushed into the arena, and the carcass was dragged out amid the most deafening shouts.

The expenses of the bull-fights are great; but the receipts far exceed them, leaving a very handsome sum for the benefit of the hospital, which, it is said, draws a revenue from these entertainments of 300,000 reals, (3000l. sterling). Some persons begin to affect a dislike of the bull-fight, but they go to it notwithstanding; and I think I may venture to say, from my own observation, that this national entertainment is not yet on the decline. The king occasionally goes; Don Carlos rarely; but Don Francis and his wife are generally to be seen there; and I noticed, that the private boxes of the nobility were as well filled as any other part of the house. On leaving the amphitheatre, I counted forty-five private carriages in waiting.

A few weeks afterwards, I was present at another bull-fight. I have no intention of describing this also; but I gathered some information from it that had escaped me upon the former occasion. This time, I paid more attention to the demeanour of the people, than to the fight; and instead of securing a place in the boxes, I took my seat in the commonest division, that I might the better observe the character of the lower orders. It is not at all unusual for those of the nobility who are amateurs of the bull-fight, to place themselves among the lowest classes; a true lover of the bull-fight likes to be under no restrictions, but to express his delight as loudly as a peasant. In that place he is at his ease; he gives himself up to the full enjoyment of his passion; he applauds, he condemns, and gives vent to his joy like the people that surround him. This is true happiness to him. It is said that Don Francis occasionally disguises himself; and enjoys, even though Infante, the pleasure of a water-carrier.

At this fight, all the bulls were indifferent excepting one; but he proved himself a perfect master of the science. He rushed first at one picador and then at the other, and overthrew both the horses and their riders; killing both horses, and wounding one of the picadores. Two fresh picadores immediately appeared; and these, he served in a precisely similar way: but the overthrow was more tragical—one of the horses and his rider were raised fairly into the air; and the horse falling so as to crush the rider between its body and the fence, he was killed upon the spot. The bull was now master of the arena; he had cleared it of men—three horses lay dead—and he stood in the midst, lashing his tail, and looking round for another enemy. This was a time to observe the character of the people. When the unfortunate picador was killed, in place of a general exclamation of horror, and loud expressions of pity, the universal cry was “Que es bravo ese toro!” Ah, the admirable bull!—the whole scene produced the most unbounded delight; the greater horror, the greater was the shouting, and the more vehement the expressions of satisfaction—I did not perceive a single female avert her head, or betray the slightest symptom of wounded feeling. Accidents do not occur so frequently as a spectator would be apt to imagine: danger is in fact more apparent than real, because those who engage the bull are well trained to the combat. There is, both in Madrid and at Seville, a regular school of instruction, where those destined for Las Corridas, practise the art with young animals; and excepting the matadores, who are occasionally killed, no other of the combatants runs great risk from the bull. When the picador is killed, the catastrophe is always occasioned by the horse falling upon his rider, or crushing him against the inclosure.

Every time I attended a bull-fight, I was more and more impressed with a conviction of its cruelty and brutality. It is improperly termed a fight, because the bull has never a chance of victory and escape; it is merely a massacre,—and the series of abominable cruelties exhibited in the treatment of the horses, stamps the whole with a character of brutality and barbarism, sufficient, in my opinion, to separate Spain from the list of civilized nations. It is not merely the atrocities that an interested contractor for the bull-fights may permit,—not merely that the picador continues to ride upon an animal bathed in blood, and whose entrails trail upon the ground,—but that the Spanish people can witness and tolerate such barbarity. I do not wish to seem prejudiced; but I cannot believe that there are many among the very lowest ranks in this country who would not, at such a spectacle, cry out “kill him!” It was proposed by the present queen to envelope the horses in a net, by which the most disgusting part of the exhibition would have been concealed; but this was a refinement which it was thought would not be relished by the mob, and I believe it was never attempted. By the horses having no power of defence, and by their being deprived of the means of consciousness of their condition, the cruelty of the spectacle is increased. Townshend, that very respectable and accurate writer, is in error when he speaks of the courage shewn by the horses in facing their enemies: this, if true, would give a character of greater nobility to the entertainment; but the horses know neither their enemies nor their danger; their eyes are blinded, and their ears are tied up. If the horses were netted round the body, and if they were led off the arena when wounded; if their eyes were uncovered, that when the rider was unhorsed, they might have a chance of escape, in place of standing to be gored, unconscious of the vicinity of the enemy,—if the semi-luna were discontinued;—and, above all, if a valiant bull, which could unhorse two picadores without being wounded, and parry two or three thrusts of the matador, were allowed the reward of its victory—life: then the bull-fight would be divested of much of its barbarism, without losing, but, on the contrary, greatly adding to the interest which it at present possesses.

It is impossible to witness a spectacle like this, without being impressed with a conviction that such exhibitions must produce some influence upon the character of a people. One would naturally argue that there must be an affinity between the character of a people and their amusements, especially since we actually find this affinity among several savage nations; and yet I should be doing gross injustice to the Spanish character, if I said that any such affinity existed in Spain. There is nothing of deliberate cruelty in the character of a Spaniard,—less hard-heartedness than I have found among most other nations:—he invariably treats his mule with the utmost kindness, he is mindful even of his dog and his cat. The murders which are so frequent in the south of Spain, are the result of an irascible temper, brandy, and a hot climate; but are never deliberate: and the robberies, which originate in poverty, and which bad laws encourage, are rarely attended by violence. All this is a riddle,—nor is it less a riddle, that the females who can look unmoved, and even with pleasure, upon scenes from which a woman of any other nation turns away disgusted, do not possess less refinement than the females of other countries. Generally speaking, the character of the Spanish woman is kind and compassionate; and even among the lower ranks, I have heard sentiments that would do honour to the women of those countries that are esteemed the foremost in refinement.

The first attempt at a horse race in Madrid, was made last autumn; and as I am upon the subject of diversions, I shall give a slight sketch of the Spanish mode of conducting these things. The ground chosen for the race, was a sandy road, extending from the bridge of Toledo along the canal. The road is a common cart road, covered with stones, and full of ruts; and the distance was about two miles. A large concourse of persons was attracted to the spot by the novelty of the entertainment. There were between two and three hundred horsemen, and upwards of twenty carriages on the ground; among others, the handsome equipage of the Duke of San Carlos, the owner of one of the horses, an English mare, called Pensive. Her only opponent was a Spanish horse. Pensive was ridden by a jockey, dressed in the English fashion; the horse, by a Spanish groom, in the dress of a peasant. Pensive was a very indifferent animal, but had seen better days, and would have been distanced at a sixth-rate English race. Before starting, the horses were held by a man at the head of each, and at a signal, they were let go. The greatest possible anxiety was shewn by the spectators, that the English mare might be beaten; but it came in two or three lengths before its opponent. This created extraordinary disappointment; but the crowd resolved that the next heats should be different; and they carried their resolution into effect. They formed an avenue just wide enough for the horses; and as the Spanish horse passed, every one struck it with a stick, a whip, a stone, or whatever was at hand, and so urged it on; and partly owing to this, and partly owing to some carts intercepting the road, the Spanish horse gained both heats. This triumph was followed by loud acclamations; and so intemperate was the mob in its joy, that the grossest insults were offered to the carriage of the Duke of San Carlos as he left the ground. I heard it reported, that the Duke intended to take the field again with better horses, and upon better ground; and that horse races in Madrid would re-commence at a future time, under the patronage of one of the Infantes.